The Brotherhood Page 7

  Ambrose had a dignified, if severely dated, look. Tall, gray, and willowy, he sat in Commander Jones’s office looking every bit the almost-retired small-town city manager. It would surprise no one that his daily uniform was suit and tie, never anything less. But now, on a sad day off, he wore tan slacks, a seventies-style turtleneck, and a sport coat with a faint checked pattern and a pocket hankie.

  Lucy appeared already dressed for the funeral in a black dress with black purse and accessories—everything, Boone thought, but a mourning veil. She had become matronly with age but retained vestiges of her pretty youth.

  When Boone tapped lightly on the commander’s open door, his mother leaped to her feet. “Oh! Here he is now, bless his heart! Oh, Boone!”

  He surrendered to her exuberant embrace, and both Commander Jones and Jack Keller immediately rose and excused themselves. “Let me give you a few moments here,” Jones said. “Feel free to take all the time you need.”

  Boone wanted to leave the commander’s office to him and use the conference room, but he never got a chance to say so over his mother’s squalling. With her head pressed on his shoulder, she immediately burst into tears. “We’ve been praying for you every second. How awful. How horrible. We’ve lost a precious daughter-in-love—you know that’s what I’ve always called her. And we’ve lost our only grandbaby. But you—oh, Boone. God will have to help you get through this somehow. We’ll be at your side the whole way.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Standing with you, Son,” his dad said, finally getting a chance to embrace Boone—something he hadn’t done since Boone was a small child.

  The entire morning, from the time he had risen and showered and eaten and ridden to headquarters, Boone had been aware of a strange thing. Something deep in him was working to somehow protect him. He was shutting down emotionally. He no longer felt weepy. The gruesomeness of the deaths was being pushed back, tucked away somewhere he could not access it every moment. Boone would not have been able to survive if those images were ever at the forefront of his consciousness.

  But they had been elbowed aside by a resolute coldness that somehow took the rage that had made him want to kill someone—maybe even himself—or to destroy something, and planted in him some seed of deep resentment. That was not a strong enough word for it, he knew. But he was also aware that this was going to manifest itself in a frigid, largely silent persona. No more games. No more cordiality. Unless someone could somehow say something that made sense of any of this, he was not going to even pretend to be comforted.

  And it started now. He didn’t want to be mean to his parents. Again, there was no question that they, like everyone else, meant well. And they had suffered losses too. Not like his, but losses nonetheless. They would have to be inhuman to not feel deeply for him. But they couldn’t help him. No one could. Boone could not imagine anyone saying or doing anything that would change an iota of what had become of his life in one horrible instant.

  One moment he had been enjoying the life and marriage and family and career he had always dreamed of and striven for, and the next he had lost everything that mattered to him except his job. And even that, at least for now, held no appeal.

  Boone was reminded of a movie that was already old when he had seen it years before—Catch-22. He remembered little of the plot, but one scene played out in his mind. A character was standing on some sort of floating dock when a low-flying military aircraft flew into him and tore him in half. He was sure that the way the special effects artists for the picture portrayed it was not likely true to life. The character’s body, from the torso down, was left standing on the dock a few seconds before collapsing.

  No doubt if someone had been hit by an airplane like that, his entire body would have been obliterated or thrown hundreds of feet. But there was something poignant to Boone now about that ugly scene. It represented how he felt. Standing tall one second, chopped in half the next.

  All this rumbling inside Boone’s head protected him in some weird way from the awfulness that had plagued him the day before. He could not have gone on living that way, with such sensory overload that he could barely function. It was not lost on him that this new mind-set was poisonous, that he was internalizing the rage, the confusion, the anger at God, and that it would turn him into someone he could not have imagined being.

  But, he realized, it was this or suicide. He would work at not hurting anyone. There was nothing to be gained by taking his rage out on someone else, especially Jack or his parents or his pastor. But neither was he going to exhibit any pretense. People would want to hear that he was doing okay under the circumstances, that he was numb, that he knew time was a healer. Well, he wasn’t going to say or even pretend that was true. His plan of action, if he could call it that, was to retreat inside himself. He would tell the truth as dispassionately as he could, and while he would not be intentionally unkind, he would engage in no role-playing.

  “I’m sorry for your loss too,” he told his parents, and his mother cocked her head and scowled. Clearly she had not expected him to sound so detached and formal. Too bad. He was sorry for their loss. “Now let’s not take advantage of the commander’s kindness and let him have his office back. He’s one of the busiest men I’ve ever known, and we can talk in the conference room.”

  “Yes, we can pray in there too,” Mrs. Drake said.

  “Well, you can,” Boone said.

  She took his arm as they vacated the office and headed down the hall. “Whatever do you mean, honey? You must be praying every minute.”

  “No, I’m not. I figure if God has something he wants to tell me, like that he’s sorry for letting this happen, he can say so. I have nothing to say to him.”

  “Oh, Boone! You have to know God has some purpose in this! We don’t know what it is, and we’re in the valley of the shadow of death right now, but—”

  “Please, Mom. There is no shadow here. It’s death plain and simple, and the worst kind you can imagine. I’m not going to tell you not to pray if that gives you some comfort. But it gives me nothing, so spare me.”

  “This is just a stage,” Mr. Drake said as they sat in the conference room. “Perfectly understandable. Be grateful we have a God who can take it when we shake our fists at him and tell him what we really think. He lost a Son too, you know—”

  “Dad! Don’t start with that. Not now. I don’t have the power to raise my son from the dead, okay? And my son didn’t die for the sins of the whole world as part of some eternal cosmic plan.”

  Ambrose held up a hand. “All right, Son. I understand. Let’s concentrate on details and logistics. This is all too fresh and painful for all of us.”

  Lucy sat weeping, and Boone suspected her abject grief had been replaced with horror over her son’s blasphemy. As was her wont, she broke into prayer. “Lord, please forgive us and help us and show us your grand design here.”

  Boone snorted and shook his head.

  “Do you have my legal pad, dear?” Ambrose said, and the teary Lucy pulled it from her oversize handbag.

  “Boone,” his father began, pulling out a pen, “there may be some value in our just getting through some practical things here. Have you settled on a funeral home?”

  “No, but I was going to talk to my pastor. There’s at least one funeral guy in our church, and I figure Pastor’s worked with him before.”

  “Good. You’ll want to get on that today so the bodies can be moved and prepared—”

  “There’ll be no preparation, Dad. As you can imagine, this will be a closed-casket funeral.”

  His father nodded, looking grim. And his mother interrupted. “Before we go too far down this road, Ambrose, let’s tell Boone what we’ve arranged at the hotel.”

  “Oh yes. We understand it will be some time before you could move back home, so—”

  “I’m not moving back home. No way I could live there.”

  “Now, Son, let me caution you not to make any hard decisions while you’re, you
know, in the earliest throes of—”

  “Dad, it’s just not going to happen. There may be a few more things I’ll want to haul out of there, but moving back in is not an option.”

  “You know, Boone, widows and widowers often make this mistake. They abandon—”

  “End of story, Dad. Now, please, this is my decision, and I’ve made it.”

  “They abandon their homes to their eventual regret. It’s not financially wise, and in fact, they often too late realize that they have squandered their most valuable asset.”

  “How many times do I have to say it?”

  “If you could just put off any final decision for a month or two. I can certainly understand why you would not want to move back in right away. . . .”

  Boone pressed his lips together and stared at his father, shaking his head.

  “You’re not open to any counsel, Boone?”

  “You figure that out all by yourself?”

  “Boone!” his mother said.

  “I can’t be clearer. Now let’s move on.”

  “Well, your mother wants you to join us at the hotel. We rented a suite with a separate room and facilities for you, and we plan to be here a full week. You shouldn’t be alone, and—”

  “I’m not alone; you know that. I’m staying with Jack.”

  Lucy made a face. “Isn’t he the one you told us was thrice divorced and enjoys the ladies?”

  “I knew that would come back to haunt me. Fact is, putting me up will cramp his style, but he’s offered and I’ve accepted. I’m going to get my own place in a month or so, as soon as I’m ready to get back to work.”

  “Now see,” Ambrose said, “there’s one reason you should delay your decision about your house. By then it will likely be made livable, and—”

  “End of story, Dad.”

  “Boone,” his father said, “this is hard on all of us. There’s no need to be testy.”

  “Well, forgive me if I’m not in a good mood. There’s no need to try to talk me out of decisions I’ve already made.”

  “Do stay with us for a week, though, Son.”

  “Dad, I appreciate the thought, but I prefer to be alone. Jack is going to be on duty during the day, so . . .”

  Lucy said, “This is the worst time to be alone. You need someone to talk to, someone who understands, someone who loves you and will pray with you and support you. . . .”

  “Let’s move on.” Ambrose checked his list. “I know this is not something you want to think about right now, but I’m assuming you had insurance policies on your family, I mean besides the little starter thing we bought for Josh.”

  Boone nodded. “I don’t remember all the details, but yeah, something was in place. The policies are new, so they won’t be worth much. Maybe pay for the funeral.”

  “You might be surprised,” his father said. “If you’re insistent on leaving your home, perhaps the policies and the homeowners insurance will allow you to, you know . . .”

  “Yeah, I know.” Boone was grateful his father had finally seemed to surrender to his decision about the house. But the idea of somehow benefiting financially from all this was repugnant.

  Lucy had clearly disengaged from the conversation. She had her purse in her lap, had turned away from Boone, and sat staring out the door. He’d known her long enough to know what was on her mind. Plainly he wasn’t taking much counsel, making all his own decisions. Their advice and offers of help and companionship were being rejected, so she had nothing else to say or do. Her pouting was fine with Boone. It took the pressure off. He was an adult, and he would decide how to muddle his way through this. He wanted to tell her she ought to be grateful that the only thing keeping him from eating his gun was that he didn’t want to inflict even more pain on them.

  His father spoke again. “Just know that we are here, standing by, willing to help in any way you want or need. If you’d like us, or me, to meet with the funeral home people or your pastor, just say the word. Otherwise, we will appreciate knowing when and where the funeral will be.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Boone told him the McNickles were in town and wrote down their phone numbers. “Guess we can all get together for dinner this evening.”

  “And can I at least pray for you one more time?” Lucy said.

  “I’d really rather you not,” Boone said, rising. “In private, do what you want, but for now, no.”

  She sighed and shook her head, but she also rose and approached him, arms wide. He let her hug him. “I know this isn’t you, Boone, and I understand. It’s the devil attacking you.”

  “He attacked me yesterday,” Boone said. “And he wins. I surrender.”

  Boone felt it only right to see his parents out to their car. His mother was still crying and his father looked stony. “If you change your mind,” Ambrose said, “here’s where we’re staying.” He handed Boone a piece of notepaper from the hotel that had the address printed on top.

  Jack met Boone when he reentered headquarters. “I gotta get on the street,” he said, “but you oughta know you’ve had dozens of calls. Most of ’em, I think, have taken me up on the offer of leaving their messages with me. I’ll save them for ya. Mostly just condolences. But your pastor has called several times and really needs to get together with you. He says he’ll meet you anywhere. You wanna call him or you want me to get back to him?”

  “Yeah, tell him I’ll come to the church after lunch.”

  Boone was partly proud of himself that he had stood up to his parents and put into action his new resolve to be brutally honest. On the other hand, what had been the point of hurting people who loved him and cared about him and who had indeed suffered losses themselves? Would he ever again be in his right mind? He couldn’t imagine.

  His car had been in the district headquarters lot since he had arrived for duty the day before. He drove to an ATM, withdrew several hundred dollars, and found a sunglasses place. If there was one thing he hated, it was people gazing into his eyes, trying to detect something. Did they want to know if he had been crying? Were they trying to determine what was going on in his mind?

  Boone asked to see the largest and best wraparound sunglasses, and a girl who appeared to be fresh out of high school showed him the top-of-the-line Maui Jims. He immediately slapped down the cash and rejected all her offers of warranties, cleaning cloths, and other accessories. He had them on before he left the shop.

  Boone drove through a fast-food place for lunch, again seeing the food as only fuel, eating less than he was used to, and surprising himself by realizing that he was not out of emotion. As he sat eating, he was reminded that Josh had come to love the kiddie meals and the toys and sharing fries with him, and the tears came afresh. He removed the big sunglasses and wiped his eyes before finally heading for the church.

  Boone kept his shades on even in the huge, dark sanctuary, and when he was greeted tentatively and sadly by staff, he responded to their expressions of sympathy with mere nods. He followed the long hallway behind the baptistery to the pastor’s office, where Francisco Sosa’s secretary told him Pastor was in a meeting but had asked to be interrupted.

  “Not a problem. I’ll wait.”

  “No, he insisted.”

  “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

  “Just one second. They’re finishing up right now.”

  Boone stood when the door opened and Pastor Sosa ushered out a young couple. He introduced them to Boone and said they were there for premarital counseling. It was obvious they knew who he was, as they both immediately sobered and told him how sorry they were. It stabbed him to see them so young and in love.

  Sosa asked his secretary to get Boone a Coke, and they settled in his office. The pastor asked him how he was doing, whether he had slept, how the meeting went with HR and his parents. Boone admitted he was doing poorly, had not slept well, and asked how Sosa knew about the meeting with the benefits people.

  “Your partner has been very good about keeping me informed. Seems li
ke a good guy. You ought to invite him to church. Well, I suppose you already have.”

  That had never crossed Boone’s mind.

  Sosa picked up a phone message pad and said, “Actually, I’ve already heard from a Ms. Wells. She says you authorized her to work with us on some Chicago PD involvement in the service and at the gravesite.”

  Boone nodded.

  “I need to know from you what you want in the program, and then I’ll be happy to work with them.”

  “You know what?” Boone said. “I can’t even think about the program. You knew Nikki. You know how special she was. Whatever you want to say is fine with me.”

  “Did she have a favorite song?”

  Boone thought a moment. “You know, she did have two hymns she really liked, but I don’t know if we’ve ever sung them here. In fact, I’m pretty sure we haven’t.”

  “Sorry, our demographic is not big on hymns, but we can sure work them into a funeral service.”

  “I know ’em because our church sang all the old hymns when I was growing up. ‘I Will Sing the Wondrous Story’ and ‘My Jesus, I Love Thee.’”

  Sosa suddenly covered his mouth and shook his head. He pulled his hand away and his eyes filled. “Wow. Didn’t expect that to hit me that way. You know, those are two songs we ought to sing around here, quaint language and all.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Whoo. You bet. I’ll find someone to sing those. That’ll be really special. Anything else you want included, read, said, anything?”

  Boone shook his head. “I just want to get through it.”

  “You want it to be right, though.”

  Boone didn’t want it at all, right or not. This ordeal got worse by the minute, and a funeral service would be the hardest part yet. “You understand I need to leave all the details up to you. I can’t deal with it.”